


Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Sex in a TARDIS, au this never happened, cohabiting with evil, probably angst as well, sex against a bookcase, those poor books, twissy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love won't redeem her, which isn't to say he won't at least try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

“Your TARDIS doesn't like me,” says Missy. 

The Doctor doesn't look up from his work under the console. “You turned her into a paradox machine, remember?”

Missy scoffs. “That was centuries ago, she can't still be holding a grudge.”

The Doctor stands and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Well, apparently she is.” He turns and looks at Missy. She's changed from the Mary Poppins outfit into a black jacket and skirt, white blouse, black tie. It suits her. 

He's just about got used to Missy being in the TARDIS, to the scent and the sight of her, to the occasional worried phone calls from Clara. It's an uncomfortable arrangement but it just about works. 

“Why don't we go somewhere fun?” she asks. 

“Because you're evil,” he says, like he always does. 

“And? We can't just stay in the vortex until one of us kills the other one. You haven't thought this through very well, have you?”

He has, though, he has. He spent years dreaming a similar life after the Master died on the Valiant, and maybe that's why he was so quick to decide to keep her this time. “Evil,” he repeats, as much to himself as to her. 

She moves suddenly, pressing her hands to his chest and pushing him backwards until he hits a bookcase and is trapped between paper and flesh. She gazes at him with something that might just be affection, and then she kisses him. 

In some parallel and more sensible timeline, he pushes her away and leaves the room without a word. In this reality, the one where he's weak, he rests his hands at her waist and returns the kiss. She tugs his bottom lip into her mouth, bites just hard enough to hurt him. 

She wriggles against him, slides a hand between them to press against his groin. She hasn't left him room to move, it's all he can do not to blush when she finds what she's looking for.

“How very boring,” she says, stroking him through his trousers. “Hard for me already.” She leans in further, whispers in his ear. “I'm wet, you know. We should do something about that.”

Then she spins, pulls them around in one quick movement, lifts her legs up around him and he has grab the bookcase for balance, _Alice's Adventures In Wonderland_ digging into his palm. Her skirt rides up around her hips and she's never been one to bother with underwear. She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder as the other works his belt open and tugs his trousers down. 

“Missy -” he says, feeling he should make at least a token effort to resist her. 

“ _Mistress_ ,” she corrects, shifting and moving until he slides in on instinct and she moans. 

He kisses her neck and starts moving slowly, but she's never been one for tenderness and quickens the pace, gripping him more tightly between her legs and biting his shoulder. 

It's been centuries since River, since the few lovers he took on Trenzalore, but _this_ body remembers what _that_ body learned, and soon enough he's sweating and she's swearing. In a moment of optimism he presses his forehead against hers, but she moves from the contact and keeps her mind firmly closed.

She comes with his old name on her lips, a name he's been starting to forget. He slows and waits for her, calls her “Mistress” without complaint.

“You can come,” she says, commanding, and after a few quick thrusts he joins her. 

After a moment she sighs contentedly and he lowers her carefully to her feet. He fixes his clothes and half-collapses into the leather armchair by the bookcase.

“The female orgasm really is something else,” she says, straightening her skirt, “you should try it sometime.”

“Maybe I will,” he says, tired.

Then, to his surprise, she lowers herself into his lap, resting her head on his chest. She taps out his heartbeats – not the drums, not any more – on his arm and yawns. He starts hoping. 

“Yes,” she says, as though reading his mind, “love will redeem me.” She giggles. “And people say _I'm_ arrogant.”

“I just thought -”

“You can't shag goodness into someone,” she says, not moving from her spot. “It didn't work before and it won't work now.”

He doesn't have an answer to that, so he closes his eyes and doesn't say anything in response. After a while he hears her breathing slow and a while after that he's asleep as well.


End file.
